


Elevated

by RabiLewdy



Category: Street Fighter
Genre: Blood, Broken Bones, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, One Night Stands, Other, Parkour, Porn With Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Reader-Insert, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8402497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabiLewdy/pseuds/RabiLewdy
Summary: You're a college student living in NYC who happens to meet our friend indeed in a Starbucks on your day off. Little did you know that your free time for the next few days was going to entail a little something more than a pumpkin spice latte and some small talk!





	1. Coffee Break

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I was extremely inspired by teddyfazbear's FABULOUS gender-neutral Rashid x Reader fic, so I cracked my rusty knuckles at writing fic after about 6-7 years...aaaand no beta. Rashid doesn't get *ANY* love though, so I poured a lot of my fandom hell soul for him into this for you all.  
> If you would like to volunteer to beta - CONTACT ME as I post up new chapters! I would love to hear from you!
> 
> Was super inspired by “Elevated” by RKCB, hence the title.  
> The explicit parts don't begin until about Chapter 5, but I hope you all have fun ridin' the wind anyhow ///

❃❃❃❃  
  
  
It was finally fall, and luckily, also a day off from your shitty office job. As a grand trifecta, it was also payday, so it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to wander out from your usual rounds between home, college, and work since class was over for the morning. You almost felt like doing a cartwheel on the way out of the building, despite all of the homework you had piled on your nightstand already at the dorm.

 

There wasn't a care in the world for that now! Coffee now, anxiety later!

 

The two-step hop from Union Square to the dorms were too short of a promenade, so you decided on a detour to longer enjoy the beautiful cloudless day. To Irving Plaza! You decided it'd be a great opportunity to treat yourself to a new video game - and that pumpkin spice latte you've been secretly craving since July, since you're basic as fucking shit.  
At the far left side of the block you arrived from, large letters huddled under a weird green pagoda painted onto the brick above each business down the street. Inside reassured you as the familiar, fragrant, hipster heaven. Without a line!

Shortly after being handed your latte, which spilled a lick of foam from its rim over the green mermaid logo, you sat down with your name spelled more than 4 letters wrong in sharpie. This happened to everyone, you thought. You looked around - maybe you could peer at other badly spelled names on other people's cups.  
There were just a handful of well-dressed people lounging about on their expensive laptops. Nobody talked to each other under the usual New York suspicion that you wanted money from them. 

You had always been amazed, no matter how long you had lived here, at the sheer amount of people could truly exist every time you went into places like this. It was never the same. Concern for individuals ironically melted away in your mire of petty new adult life situations that began to bubble up in your mind.

 

So, what game did you want to get? On second thought, maybe you should get something more to decorate your dorm with instead, since your parents were likely going to visit you soon and remind you of your terrible spending habits...ah, nevermind that. Your parents already helped so much with tuition, you might as well just save your money for now.  
Well, who else could you better impress instead of your parents, then? You wouldn't know, since you haven't bothered dating since you began college.

 

Jesus Christ, mate. You're boring.

 

Before you wallowed in your pity for much longer, however, you were fortunately interrupted by a resounding tap, then a bigger whud against pavement that could be heard through the tempered glass. Decorations and picture frames on the walls rattled.

The door chime tinkled pleasantly over the outside chatter and squealing of car breaks, which promptly muffled as the door swung shut on its own. While soundless aside from two pairs of footsteps echoing through the cafe, you could sense every pair of eyes in the shop affix to what had stirred the noises.  
You, on the other hand, were numb to strange sights— after all, it was New York, home of the guy who licked shoes out of a Payless bag on the G train. You didn't bother looking up. There was a spell of someone catching their breath before the silence broke.

 

           "Ohoh, hello there! Phew, _hardcore parkour_ , am I right?" a voice flippantly laughed.

 

You could detect a trace cadence of 1950's radio smarm that rose to your ear far beyond the rest of the background noise of faded vehicle horns and coffee percolators, but trailed off to a pause with lighter, wordless panting.

           "...No?" an awkward beat passed, but the man placed together a clumsy recovery from his own faux pas. “Alright then, I would like one venti mint chocolate frappuchino and uh-"

 

Your daydream gave in to the voice, snapping, almost like your neck did, like a dry twig. You gulped your coffee down as casually as you could. Get a load of these guys!

 

           "Oh, uh, just a darjeeling tea for me, please. A small one." this voice was a gentle roll of thunder.

 

The latter voice belonged to this colossal, garishly clad man adorned in an open yellow vest of silk, fluffy white harem pants that could've easily fit 2-3 normal men inside each pant leg, and a silky beard that was ponytailed into a bundle of silver cord with a ringlet of emerald. His hands are folded together over his burly, bare chest, wrists cuffed in metal bracelets of green and gold.  
This seemed to be quite a demure gesture for such a behemoth. A single, delicate lock of hair wrapped in a high ponytail slid over he turned his head behind him.

He towered in front of another still distinctively muscular, bearded young man who wore a white keffiyeh with a matching bodice akin to a karate uniform, complete with a black belt that dangled almost to his bizarre weather-proof sandals. He was covered in gizmos from head to toe. His was skin was a rich chestnut brown, buttery in complexion from his oils and sweat compared to the clean shine of white fabric that rested over the latter sides of his high cheekbones.

There was no denying it, though. The way those hulking shoulders glistened from sweat almost had you forget about his crazy outfit.  
They were wrapped in a black, cross-torn latex material that accentuated them even more.

Oh, now you're back to how weird his outfit was again. 

What were they anyway, circus performers or something? They looked like clowns, but not literally speaking. Cosplayers?

There's nothing like an anime convention that would be going on...ah, actually, there was. New York Comic Con was in a few days. That answered most things, other than why these people would be in town this early for the event. This all still seemed like a lot of commitment for an Aladdin themed take on Vegeta and Napa. Artfully crafted and interesting designs, nonetheless.  
  
           "...At least it's not steampunk," you mumbled to yourself.

 

           “So, a tall darjeeling tea for you, sir?" asked the auburn-haired barista. Her freckled nose was wrinkled, further screwing up her plastered smile.  
  
           “No, no- a small size pl-"  
  
           “—Yes, that's perfectly fine, miss— Aubrey," reassured the young man, pausing to read her name tag. With his hand on the log of an arm of his friend's,   he glanced up at the larger man with his other palm up to mask his speech to Aubrey. "The tall is the small size, Azam, _it rhymes_ ," he muttered.

 

The giant man's, or Azam's, bushy eyebrows furrowed down as his mustached lip furrowed upward. His eyes closed in half-acceptance to a nod. He looked downward and pulled open a scimitar hilt that curiously had not only a glimmering blade inside, but also a pouch full of a mixture of currencies that he poured into his hand.

He then outstretched his arm to the barista, who instinctively held out not one, but both of her palms to catch all the coins and floating bills. She giggled nervously and began counting the change. Correct, as it appeared, she placed all of it in the drawer.

 

The man in the keffiyeh nimbly twirled around the bar stand like a child would, then leaned over the high counter shield while waiting for his frappuchino, bending over.

Oh, lord. You shouldn't have looked.

That material was thinner, and his frame was thicker, than what you saw at first glance. You had another not-so-casual gulp of latte.

 

A fatal mistake was made on your part to keep to yourself— you forgot to avert your eyes.

It was too late— he rolled around while supporting his weight with his rippling arms, and met eyes with you.He, in all seriousness however, wore a green dragon ball Z scouter over his right eye.

Your heart still felt some sort of vague threat, and leapt into your throat. It must have been the whites of his eyes.  
That contrast between midnight darkness of his irises to them cut you like a blade. His quirky whorl of a beard bobbed with his movement. That was the absurdity that helped you to somewhat break eye contact, though you couldn't gather the will to tear your eyes away from his figure.  
His frazzled eyebrows rose high, but you couldn't really read his expression.  
A noticeable grey ocular implant was pushing up above the green scouter glass with the wrinkles of his forehead. His gaze darted away as quickly as it had met you, back to the counter. His frappuchino was already prepared and being handed to him with a green straw being stuck into it.

 

The barista pulled away his drink for a moment.

           "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to ask what your name was, sir," she had a chisel-tip sharpie at the ready in her other hand. The man raised his head in understanding, and smiled.

 

            "I'm Rashid, of the Turbulent Wind. Pleasure," he held out his hand to offer a polite handshake, but the barista instead place his drink into it. His brow dipped, and mildly struggled to maintain an awkward grin at her dismissal.

 

He walked away a short distance, about to take his first sip of his drink, but noticed not only was the sharpie writing nothing like his name, it was a number.

He looked back at 'Aubrey', who could only spare a princess wave under her chin before she turned away to help the next customer.

  
  
❃❃❃❃


	2. Urban Tones

❃❃❃❃

Azam, the giant genie-looking man held his drink with just his index finger and thumb, with his other hand cupping the bottom from spills. A purple tea tag dangled from a cotton string on the side of the cup's black lid.

Your latte was getting rather low, so there was some time to get away from their appr-

            "Excuse me, do you mind if we sit with you?" asked the Arabian karate cyborg, or Rashid, as he was called.

            "Shit," you whispered in deadpan. You winced, apprehending your hostile expression as soon as you could with a mask of                            forbearance. “Of course!” you clucked. You gestured weakly to the other two empty seats of the window side booth.  
  
  
You felt ascending, incredulous terror as they approached to sit down, much akin to the feeling of seeing mascots as a small child. They resided deep within uncanny valley, were triggered your primeval instincts to run for your survival, and worst of all, they were requiring social interaction from you.  
  
_Why this_ ? you lulled in dread.  
  
  
The both of them took their seats, Azam being first with a big “poof” of the cream white cushion before scooting in.  
  
  
           “Apologies for the intrusion, but do you happen to know anything about the NYC Fighting Tournament going on tomorrow night, by any chance?” asked Rashid, tiling his head in a friendly, inquisitive manner. “We’re trying to figure out where it is around here, but Google Maps keeps leading us in weird circles. Back to this exact Starbucks, actually,” his expression weakens to a sheepish grimace.    
  
You couldn’t help but to wonder if these strange gentlemen were not only participants in this tournament you have mysteriously never heard of, but if they were attempting to convert you into a cult religion or scouting for inter-round entertainment of sorts.  
  
  
           “Hm, so you’re not going to Comic Con. So is it like UFC or the WWE, like those shows on Pay-Per-View or something?” you inquired.  
             
           “Huh? No, no, no. Comic-con? It’s too...soon. Maybe in another year or two, it’ll be safe enough. But, nevermind that!” his voice dropped with a touch of abhorrence for a moment. You felt totally bewildered as to why he would blurt out something so outlandishly cryptic to a stranger. You wished to pry more into what he was potentially inferring, but you decided for the better to dismiss its weight on your curiosity.   
  
He stopped, however, waved his arms and head in dismissal, and shifted back up to his more consistent, sunny tone. “ _Anyway_ ,” he annunciated, “UFC’s waaaaay bigger than this thing we’re going to. The location changes every year. This year’s over at this place called the Palladium.”  
  
Unmistakably, he must have been be talking about your University’s theater of the same name close by, on 14th street.

           “Oh, Palladium theater, right?” you nodded.  
         
           “Er- I think so. The Palladium Ballroom, this says?” he peered at his phone, then back up at you.  
  
  
That was a completely different location, you mused to yourself. You hadn’t thought to correlate the two in your mind, even though their names and purposes as venues were identical. Living in directly in Manhattan for a couple of years made you rather keen to where everything was after so many collective hours of commuting and reading signs out of boredom, but didn’t help much about location details.  
  
           “That’s over on 53rd and Broadway, actually,” you affirmed, pointing at him. “I think you can take the N train straight up that direction from Union Square Station,” you gestured straight across the street outside. “Over there, through the park. Look for the George Washington statue. The station will be right next to it.”

           “Geez, you really know your way around, huh?” Rashid rubbed the back of his covered head. He was so grateful, his voice became exasperated. “Oh, thank you so very much, my friend! I can’t tell you how many people snubbed us when we asked for directions! I mean...I couldn’t image why. Nobody around here normally cares about appearances, it being New York and all. It’s never been a problem visiting here in the past, now that I think about it.”  
  
  
  
You frowned skeptically, tucked your chin and looked away from him.  
  
  
           “I couldn’t imagine why,” you murmured thickly.  Azam cleared his throat, taking another sip of tea. He glowered at you in distaste, sending prickles of anxiety down your back.

           “Young stranger, please don’t misunderstand. Young Master and I might look, ahem, ridiculous to some, but we would rather keep appearances for ourselves than to appease others in each and every one of their mundane, circumvential ideals that are separate                 from our origins,” he stated placidly.   
  
  
Your cheeks flared as your eyebrows knitted, looking at Azam, then Rashid, who looked rather quizzical.  
  
  
           “I don’t really know what just happened just now, but don’t mind my friend,” said Rashid. “He’s my bodyguard and advisor, that kind of formality. His name is Azam,” He gestured to you to allow him to shake your hand. "Azam?"  
  
You bowed your head in guilt, hesitantly holding out your own hand to shake his gargantuan hand as firmly as you could, though his fingers easily could encase your entire hand up to the base of your wrist.

           “I-It’s nice to meet you, Azam,” you laughed nervously. “Look, I’m sorry that I judged you guys like that. You get pretty numb to                  people’s feelings after living here for a while.”  
You introduced your name as well, also mentioning your major and the University nearby as a little addendum to make up somehow for your earlier quip.  
  
          “Aha, so you’re a local, then. Man, rent must be ridiculous!” he marveled.

Your face crumpled dourly. That was the thing he acknowledged first? Really?  
  
          “You might have overheard that my name is Rashid, of the Turbulent Wind! It’s my uh, ring name that I use for street fighting and tournaments, like the one I mentioned,” he took his own sip of his frappuccino, smacking his lips like a little bird’s beak. He exclaimed a sigh of refreshed relief. _“Minty!”_  
  
Everything about him was so damn quirky and childish. It would be endearing if it wasn’t obnoxious first. This dude _fights other people?_ He seems like he’d be a better fit on _Pee Wee Herman’s Playhouse._ Yet, something about the timbre of his voice brought you back to feeling your breath stolen from you. It hummed in your chest when he spoke. The polarizing opinions you had battled wildly in your psyche.

 

  
           “So now that we’ve gotten to know each other, why don’t I give you a gift in return for helping us out?” he said with a small              grin pocketed in his right cheek. He pulled a strap of his backpack off his shoulder, flipping open the top compartment and unzipping a smaller pocket. Inside was a laminated badge with a reddish-purple lanyard. Azam suddenly looked disquieted, looking at Rashid.  
  
  
           “Young master,” Azam interjected, “Not to be inherently rude to prohibit your kind gesture, but you can’t enter into the tournament nor the backstage without that VIP pass. I’m sure you could ask Zangief for your friend to come backstage if you really felt so compelled.”  
  
Your eyebrows raised in surprise at the offer. Perhaps it was something a little different than what you were interested in, but you could spend more time maybe getting to know...him.  
You pursed your lips to try and mask how fast heart suddenly started pattering.  
  
  
           “Oh, n-no,” you stuttered, “It was nothing. Y-you don’t have to do something like this!”  
  
            “I insist!” Rashid said gregariously. He propped himself up on his knees in his seat, loomed over the table, and held out a lanyard and badge over your head. He draped it over you and sat back down. “Besides, it’s a good guarantee that you’ll have to show up. You aren’t doing anything tomorrow night, are you?”  
  
  
His eyebrows raised at you winsomely.  
  
  
            “No, I actually work mornings at my job,” you managed to eke out. You were probably going to have an aneurysm.  
  
            “Haha, great! That’s perfect!” the apples of his cheeks popped out from his huge grin, laughing airily. He took another sip of his frappuccino. He sat up rather suddenly to stand, holding his drink in his right hand.  
Azam looked up at him, looking a bit despondent, then looked at his tea with his name written on the plain white paper cup. _‘Azoop,’_ it read in bubbly, feminine handwriting.  
  
  
            “Are we leaving then, young master?” Azam inquired.  
  
            “Yeah, we’d better get up to the Palladium so we know where it is for tomorrow,” Rashid stepped out of the way so that Azam could squeeze himself out of the small booth. “Are ya ready for another round of cardio, or are you tired and want to take the subway up, pal?”  
  
            “Cardio?” you questioned.  
  
            “Parkour!” Rashid jaunted and rounded his shoulder for a stretch. He took a huge slurp of his drink. “You know, when people jump off stuff. I’m not sure how athletic you are but, if you’re interested, I could always show you how to go about it, if you want,” he pulled his cellphone out. He gestured with it as he talked.  “Basic parkour is actually a lot easier and more fun than you might think. Here’s my Twitter. Feel free to DM me when you need to.”  
  
            “Ehhh, I don’t know…” you meandered. You liked the idea of not upping your premium on your health insurance much better, honestly.  
  
            “Huh? You don’t have a Twitter?” he asked, a touch surprised. “Oh, I see what you mean. Hey, if you don’t want to, I’d be okay with...you just watching….” his tone dropped again, though this time, to something a bit eerie. Animalistic.  
  
  
You felt some strong twinge of a raw, wild emotion that seemed to be some battle between fear and hungry yearning.  
  
He stumbled around, panicking in guttural tones until he could figure out some reason or excuse for himself. His arms came up defensively as if he was also physically trying to steady his balance.   
  
  
                “I understand if you can't. I wouldn't want you to feel pressured to spend the whole day with us,” he jittered. “I mean, just the match or dinner is fine, too, I mean, platonically! Platonic dinner.” he flinched as if he was in pain, taking another long draw from his frappuchino to shut himself up, then set it back down on the table.  
  
  
You laughed and crossed your legs. There wasn’t any body language that was going to save either from you in how much of a trainwreck this conversation was, though you felt some security in closing yourself up.

  
  
                “Sure, what time did you want to meet tomorrow? I am off at 2,” you said, reaching into your own pocket for your phone after observing Rashid has had his hand on his for quite some time. “What works better, Twitter or texting?” you said, phone out at the ready.  
  
                “Either or,” he exhaled with relief, then chuckled.  He showed his phone screen to you, displaying his twitter handle. “It’s kinda long - so here’s how to spell it. My number in the United States is a New York area code, too - right here,” he gestured in his own contacts list after you had jotted down ‘HipbaDasSicalster8’. He must’ve travelled a lot to need so many different numbers, as you could see a pretty large ongoing list of country names after the 718 number next to ‘USA’ he pointed to.  
  
  
After you saved his contact info and followed his Twitter, he sat up, Azam following him in one short-legged scoot across the seat. Before walking through the rest of the cafe, Azam throws his empty cup into the black and false brass trash can just a few feet away from your booth.  
  
Rashid turned away and walked out the door. He opened it for Azam, who he gestured to leave before him. Rashid turned back to you, smiling shyly. The way he moved was so haphazard, yet so fluid and effortless.

  
  
           “See you tomorrow, my friend,” he quietly exhulted. There was that wry, one-sided grin again.

  
  
The door’s chimes tinkled quietly again as he exited. Then, marvellously, Azam and Rashid bound a single great leap into the air, out of view from the window or door. Gone.  
  
A small, melted end of Rashid’s frappuchino remained in the empty cup on the table where he once sat, catching sunlight in the visage of where you last saw him. He wouldn’t come back for this little bit left. You’d throw it away, whenever you decided to leave. It would still be a while, having nothing to do today.  
  
You reached across the table, rolling the cup between your fingers and palm at the sharpie-inscribed number on it as you grabbed and pulled the near-empty container closer to you. Weren’t this strange person’s lips on this green straw? You pinched the straw, looking all around it idly for blemishes.  
Wouldn’t it be unsanitary to feel where his mouth was? Why would you want to? Was anyone looking at you?

   
Sip.  
  
  
  
❃❃❃❃


End file.
